He plays Feng Yuxiu, and his girlfriend is a fairy-like beauty.

in the afternoon.

On the set of "Infernal Affairs".

Ground floor of the building, outside the main entrance.

The production crew had already set up reflectors on the curb, and the camera track stretched from the lobby entrance to the roadside.

The photographer was squatting at the end of the track adjusting the focus.

Ah-Qiang walked back and forth on both sides of the road carrying a sandbag.

Everyone is preparing for the same play—the death of Huang Zhicheng.

Ye Mo stood next to the taxi, holding a script in his hand.

It wasn't about flipping through the pages, it was about holding it.

He had memorized the lines for this scene countless times, but he knew that this scene didn't need any lines.

The script only had one line—Chen Yongren witnessed Huang Zhicheng falling from the building, stiffened, and remained silent.

There were no lines, no action choreography, and no fighting.

It all comes down to his face.

The watershed moment in the entire film.

From that moment on, Chen Yongren's world consisted only of himself.

Huang Qiusheng walked over.

He had already put on corpse makeup, with prop blood stains on his hair and a layer of grayish-white paint on his face.

He walked over to Ye Mo, didn't say anything, but just patted him on the shoulder.

"Brother Qiusheng, I've been watching this scene for a long time."

"What are you looking at?"

"Look at your face. There are only three lines in the script, but you are the most important prop in the whole film. If you die, Chen Yongren will be cut off. No matter how hard he was before, he still had someone to contact. If you die, there will be no one to listen to him even when he talks in his sleep."

Huang Qiusheng remained silent for a moment.

Then he placed the thermos on the prop box next to Ye Mo.

"After you finish filming this, this cup of tea is still yours."

"All departments, prepare—" Liu Weiqiang's voice came from behind the monitor.

He stood up, pushed back his chair, and walked over to Ye Mo.

Unlike usual, he didn't just sit behind the monitor and start yelling "action."

He walked up to Ye Mo alone, took off his glasses, and wiped them with the corner of his clothes.

"I won't give you much guidance for this scene. Just do it at your own pace. The camera will follow you, not the other way around."

He put his glasses back on and added, "You've been immersing yourself in the role of Chen Yongren since filming began. Today's scene—his most painful scene—is where you let him out."

Ye Mo nodded.

"Action!"

Ye Mo walked out of the side door of the building.

It wasn't pushed open, it was forced open.

Chen Yongren had just run down the escape route when the elevator was shut down, and gunshots and sirens echoed in the stairwell.

He was still staggering when he reached the building entrance—he leaned against the wall, gasped for breath, and wiped the sweat from his face.

There are bloodshot eyes.

Not much, but just enough for the audience to see that this person hasn't had a full night's sleep in a long time.

He went around the corner and walked to the front door.

The taxi was parked on the side of the road, the driver was not in the car, the door was open, and the engine was still running.

Chen Yongren glanced at the car subconsciously—nothing special, just a parked taxi.

He took out his phone to call Huang Zhicheng.

My finger was halfway down the button when there was a loud bang behind me.

A body fell from the sky.

It hit the roof of the taxi.

The roof collapsed, the glass shattered into pieces, and the metal body of the car was dented into the shape of a human.

Blood trickled down the crack in the roof of the car, dripping onto the asphalt road.

Behind the monitor, Liu Weiqiang made his decision almost at the same moment Ye Mo turned his head.

He grabbed the walkie-talkie and growled, "Pull in—close-up of the face, don't stop, zoom in as much as you can, shove it right in the face."

Ye Mo turned his head.

He saw the person on the roof of the car, Huang Zhicheng.

His face was ashen, his eyes were closed, and his khaki trench coat was soaked black with blood.

Inspector Wong. The only person in all of Hong Kong who knows his true identity.

Now I'm lying on the metal sheet of a taxi.

Ye Mo's pupils contracted first—and that wasn't an act.

It's a physiological reaction.

Then he froze.

Footsteps were rooted to the spot on the sidewalk, while one hand held a phone suspended in mid-air.

His eyebrows didn't move, and his lips didn't move.

But his eyes had already acted out the whole scene—before the unbelievable images could be processed by his brain, immense grief welled up from the depths of his eyes, enveloped by a thin layer of tears.

I want to cry, but I dare not cry, I cannot cry.

He's an undercover agent; there are other people on the roadside.

He couldn't let others see Chen Yongren crying for a policeman.

Zeng Zhiwei stood next to the monitor, holding the iced lemon tea in his hand for a long time without actually putting it in his mouth.

He wasn't sighing, nor was he shaking his head.

He just watched.

Everyone on set was watching—some stopped what they were doing, and some forgot about the props they were holding.

Zeng Zhiwei pulled the straw out of his mouth, swallowed, and silently thought to himself: That's great, his eyes are full of emotion, he's not acting.

Andy Lau stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

His expression didn't reveal his excitement, but he was thinking—when he acted with Huang Qiusheng before, he felt that Huang Qiusheng was an underrated actor.

Now I'm acting opposite Ye Mo.

I found myself being redefined by a young man in his early twenties through a performance with zero lines, and I realized that he was also redefining what a good performance is.

Liu Weiqiang took off his headset behind the monitor and pressed his finger to his lips.

He didn't call a halt.

He felt that Ye Mo must have something else.

Then he saw Ye Mo take a step forward—not walk, but shuffle.

Chen Yongren's legs were shaking uncontrollably.

He took half a step toward the taxi, then stopped.

Because he saw the pool of blood widening, and droplets of blood flowing down the roof of the car, dripping onto the asphalt road and into his shadow.

He stopped.

His lips moved slightly.

It wasn't a line from a script, nor was it a breakdown.

It's a sound that's been forced back into the throat.

There was only lip movement without sound.

The starting point of that sound was "huang," but he swallowed it back at the last moment.

It's not that I don't want to shout, it's that I can't shout it out.

The discipline of an undercover agent was still at play at the last moment; deeper than grief, it was instinct.

Lin Jiadong placed the script on his lap and slowly closed it.

He had seen too many crying scenes—wailing, sobbing, and restrained crying.

But no cry is like Ye Mo's—tears swirl in his eyes, but each drop seems to be held back by an iron gate, only able to shatter inside.

That layer of watery sheen wasn't meant to be sentimental; it was the result of a physiological reaction being forcibly suppressed by willpower.

Ren Dahua leaned against the wall, his coffee completely cold.

He stared at Ye Mo on the monitor for a long time.

Then he turned his head and glanced at Andy Lau.

The two exchanged a glance—the kind of unspoken understanding between veteran actors.

It wasn't surprise, nor was it emotion.

It means approval.

"Click."

Liu Weiqiang stood up.

He clapped his hands—not the polite kind of clapping.

It was two hands clapping together heavily, once, twice, three times.

The pace wasn't fast, but each strike was heavy.

"Good! Good! Good!"

"Just because of you, just because of Chen Yongren, this movie's rating should be increased by a few points."

He pushed up his glasses: "In this scene, I pushed the close-up of the face to the limit. Most actors can't handle this kind of shot—every muscle in the face has to be expressive. If you can handle it, the tears that don't fall from your eyes are more valuable than the ones that do. I'll remember this part for you—it's the soul of the scene."

Ren Dahua put the coffee on the prop box, walked over and patted Ye Mo on the shoulder.

"Xiao Ye, that look in your eyes just now—when you saw Huang Qiusheng's body, you looked at his face first, then his eyes, and then turned around to look behind you to make sure no one saw your reaction. That turning around wasn't in the script, was it?"

"No, I added it myself. Chen Yongren is an undercover agent, and he can't let anyone see him being sad."

"Not bad, not bad!"

Lin Jiadong rolled up the script and tapped it on his knee: "What I learned on set today is more than I did in three years of acting classes. You were able to convey all the emotions in a scene with zero lines using just a layer of water—that's top-notch."

Ye Mo rubbed his eyes.

He wiped away the last bit of moisture from his eyes and smiled.

"Today's scene happened to coincide with my two sleepless nights, so the redness in my eyes was a given."

"You stayed up all night—to film another movie," Simon Yam added, a smile playing on his lips.

"Didn't you already know? We're filming three movies!"

Huang Qiusheng sat up in the taxi and wiped the fake blood off his face.

He stared at Ye Mo for several seconds.

Then take the thermos that's been sitting on the prop box.

I unscrewed the lid, poured him a hot cup, and handed it to him.

"Here you go." He only said three words.

It's not about "good acting" or "you becoming famous".

It's "for you".

These three words carry more weight than any praise.

He doesn't usually share this thermos with others.

In that scene just now, his eyes were open, like a corpse.

I almost missed catching it!

.......